shattered alabaster

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we fear brokenness. we fear what comes when we are face down, palms up. we can't see our backs from this position, this place of humility.

and what if someone sees us here? they might whisper, they might talk about how low we have fallen. and whispers hurt, after all; who doesn't know that? 

but He sent them out into the streets to bring us in. the broken, the lame, the blind and the weary. and He brought us in and set us as His table, us broken ones. and He stood still in the crowd and said someone touched Me. 

we forget these stories. they get pushed to the back as we look around and stand shoulder to shoulder with others and stretch to stand on tiptoe to measure up like we think we should. brokenness does not negate the warrioress, but instead it creates glory. 

a phoenix cannot rise until it burns. 
a seed cannot grow without death. 

“God uses broken things...it is the broken alabaster box that gives forth perfume.

 it is Peter, weeping bitterly, who returns to greater power than ever." 

:: vance havner

it is something we are taught to fear, taught that we must flee from and hide, that we must scrabble for some token of false strength to save face. do we deign ourselves so great that our Jesus must be broken, but we find shame in this place for ourselves?

the prostitute was the first to find Him in the dawn when the stone had rolled away. those who followed Him were too full to see, but this woman was empty of all but Him. and He said her name, and she knew in a word. this broken vessel, this woman of the night now turned bright as the Son. 

raised to glory, this broken ones.
living in life, these blessed ones.

the glory // the strangest way

it's Christmas Eve. i will be brief.

but the saga of this swiftly-coming night of holiness has not released its grip upon me.

because i turn on the radio and i hear songs of silent nights and silver bells and the celebration of God become Man.

 this mystery of how a humble virginal child can spread frightened fingers toward Heaven's gates and sing of a delighted soul, how a confused but tender-hearted carpenter can become the earthly father of the Son of the Most High God.

Why me, I'm just a simple man of trade?
Why Him, with all the rulers in the world?
Why here inside this stable filled with hay?
Why her, she's just an ordinary girl?
Now I'm not one to second guess what angels have to say
But this is such a strange way 

to save the world. 

:: strange way to save the world // 4-Him ::

and so

:: i dare you tonight ::

to find the time to hit your knees upon the floor and behold your King, come humble and gentle, come infant and precious. because this was for you. 

do you understand?

He came to die. 

this was His purpose, His highest calling. 

this precious infant curled in the arms of wondering parents while His Father gazed from Home with tears in sacred eyes as Word became flesh. 

behold, your King. 

now i'm not one to second-guess what angels have to say

but this is such a strange way 

to save the world. 

the fifth page :: mystery

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{to read the first page, visit here}

{to read the second page, visit here}
{to read the third page, visit here}

{to read the fourth page, visit here}

conviction is a powerful thing. it's something that can come out of nowhere, something that you never saw before a hand touched yours and words were whispered, you should look.

today, it took a whimsically tangled ski trip and a sacred blog post to grip my soul and turn my head toward you should look.

it's time to look at ourselves, the sisters and the brothers and the sons and the daughters of the Mighty One. it's time to look at who we were and the mold into which we are squeezing ourselves just because we think we have to fit. have we gotten stuck in the place where sacred gets sidelined, talked about in whispers and not fully understood anymore? 

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because it feels as though we let it go, and we stopped seeking when we stepped through the church doors. 

we have somehow entered the place where candle-lighters are greeted with wrinkled brows and those who seek the holy are the strange ones who look to hard for "the emotion." because mystery in the Word, not understanding everything that greets our eyes and tugs our souls...

is this wrong?

shouldn't we just know?

we need to step back and breathe and seek. we need to be free to acknowledge that it’s okay to be a mystic, a seeker in this dark world. where candles make your soul ring in the darkness and we invite the Creator to come and create WITH us.

this season is God with us, celebrated and overwhelming with candlelight and silence in the beholding. this here, this is the time where we find ourselves willing to open our door to the fragrant and cast aside the understandable. and for this, i raise shaking hands to broken clouds and whisper, 

come have me, won’t You?

waiting and joy :: mary

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i spent this morning thinking about Mary.

this innocent girl has been on my mind so much these days as we count down the seconds, the minutes, the hours until Christmas.

because our anticipation lasts from the final dish on Thanksgiving Day until the twenty-fifth wooden figure is hung on the Advent calender.

but hers was for nine long months. 

do we forget that sometimes, that this was not a humble woman with eye aglow with pregnant anticipation with friends pressing eager fingers to a swollen belly, anxious to feel a kick?

this was a frightened child with big doe eyes and a secret told to her by an angel -- one that she could only hide for so long before the world would know and come running with big, sharp stones and cries of "whore."

this was her culture, her people. she had a strong man who loved her and sought her for his bride, but this baby was not his, and he would know, and then they would know.

but oh 

there was joy. 

this young woman of wisdom and grace, this little one with the heart of a Messiah beating inside, wrapped her arms around the place where the Sovereign One grew fingers and toes and eyelashes and a tiny smile, and cried

my soul doth magnify the Lord. 

my spirit rejoices in God, my Saviour. 

she baffles me. standing in the shadow of so much uncertainty, she praised. she turned her face to the skies and sang of her joy. because she KNEW.

she knew her soul was wrapped tight with the Hand of the Master. the protector of the innocent, the Father to this Son.

and so she waited in the silence. hand on her stomach to feel the kick of the One who would save her soul from Death

:: and clung to unceasing joy ::

Advent wanderer

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the first week of Advent is coming to an end.

this time of preparing, of gently laying out the steps. these weeks leading to Christmas are filled with decorating and Christmas card envelopes.

this is the solitary candle, one lone light cutting into the darkness, whispering

this heart is ready. 

there is a place here. 

i'm trying to touch this Advent. to bring the sacred down to Earth, because i want to live there. i'm reflecting on this thing of grace turned Man. 

i'm still not sure if i know what that looks like in the now. because it feels enormous. i'm overwhelmed with the reality of Light coming to the darkness with intent to save, intent to sacrifice, and intent to die.

i wonder if He knew. did He always know?

His mother knew, gazing into the face of Sovereign Innocence that had come from Heaven and her body combined. she knew this Warrior child would save the world, save her soul.

save the future and the present.

:: not all who wander are lost. ::

this is me this year. this wandering seeker tangled in Sacred and Holy and overwhelming Love. 

this place of not knowing and being okay with not knowing. this place of accepting mystery as mystery, and reaching trembling fingers toward the Heavenly One.

this place where all that is gold does not glitter, but is, in fact, the brightest of all.